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Ylzm Jun 2019
peeling walls, cracked floors
dusty filigrees, in fake gold,
kitsch figurines, cheap watercolours;
Jerusalem hangs on the wall.

the music played, and I heard the viola
- often lost between the violin and cello -
but this time, I heard the viola sang:
peaceful and pure, wise and warm.

life, petty, greedy and ******,
dissolves in ethereal beauty;
you can take all my money:
I’ve seen heaven, and life’s worthy after all.
Gale L Mccoy Sep 2018
I see a familiar face
in a dusty puzzle
dumped from the box
hidden behind the viola

a fragment of her eye
and a bit of her hair
painted on the piece
stuck in the roots of
a half dead bloom
most of the peices
must have been burried
several seasons ago

I have half a mind
to let it rot till
the pink of her lips
Neuvalence Jan 2018
Precious violet
Near a pond of vibrancy
Colours soon to fade
In your last freshness and youth
Why has your beauty withered?

—=—My first tanka <3—=—
hazem al jaber Feb 2017
Viola and Shakespeare...

Love you till craziness...

Love you..carved it on the moon's cheek...
love you..and need you in spite of the difficulties and the dangers...
love you..and i confess in front of all humans...
love you..and adore you ,o my fate and my luck...
love you..hug it and play with it at the string...
love are my Viola and i am your Shakespeare...

Viola mine...
your Shakespeare came again...
came to you from the heaven...
because he got bored from the heaven...
the heaven its not a heaven when you are not there...

came Shakespeare to you,Viola...
to give you a life's kisses...
to wake up you to his world...
to play with him the same story love at a same theater...
and to share the new love world with you...

come Viola...
come to me from among all humans...
come and don't hide again...
come and be the lover...
come and don't be afraid...
even don't afraid from the queen...
don't afraid from all others...

i came to you from the heaven...
to make a new heaven here with you...
come Viola, come to me...
your soul waked up me...

we will not hide our love anymore...
our love which started there...
from a first kiss on a theater's wood...

come Viola...
i will create a new theater to our love...
only for you and me...
to learn all lovers,how should a love be...

your Shakespeare came to you...
came because of and for you...

you are Viola...
and i am your Shakespeare...
love you Viola mine...
here and there and in our lovely heaven...
yours now and forever....

by hazem al jaber ...
Cyrus Gold Jun 2016
The eyes of the luthier are fixated
on the degrading and poorly fitted Dejacques bridge,
a small piece of wood that arches
at the top of the damaged instrument -
a prized 18th century treasure
originating from Brescia, a city in Northern Italy.

With a napkin in hand lightly
soaked in an oily substance,
he unhooks the piece,
then takes a replacement bridge
perfectly fitted for it. He cracks a smile.

This viola d'amore has seen better days,
with usage and prolonged handling
wearing the value of the instrument down.

Only an expert can bring a worn-out bird
seeking its once gracious and hypnotic voice
back to life with care and precision.

This luthier is a* surgeon,
a master at installing a sound-post replacement,
without gouging or harming
the quality of the instrument in the process.

This luthier is a
as he retrieves and dusts off a case
filled with a spare set of strings,
he installs and finely tunes them
but never over the desired pitch.

Tense and crucial,
like the rising crescendo of a string quartet,
he strums the new strings for evidence of life,
listening to and directing the cry of each one,
like a composer.

This luthier is a
repairing the cracks of the violin
by implementing a tactic he learned
on his many trips to Crawley, England,
where his teacher had once trained him;

by using cubic, wooden studs and small clamps,
he gains better control at closing the cracks just enough
to lace the opening with an adhesive
with little to no force or pressure.

This luthier is an
*repairing the instruments
that yearn for the sound of music,
their very raison d'être.

His string and wooden patients
scream in agony for healing and peace
with voices unheard to the people,
but deafening to him.

He leaves his signature on each new patient
as their once damaged and lifeless souls
dance to the tune of his work,
healing them, promising the advent
of a future performance.

Let them rejoice. Let the music soar once again.
I love music. LOVE it.
Like a violin,
only a little bigger.
The darkness of a cello,
the sweetness of a violin.
It sings a lullaby
to the child in the crib.
Loud and soft,
harsh and gentle.
It's the middle,
it's the best of the four.
Though it's not as popular,
it's still what I do.
It's still sings the song
that I want to sing.
No words are needed
to sing different tones.
The instrument is my voice,
the only one I speak with.
Meggn Alyssa Mar 2014
Sleek winding metal under my fingers
Squeaks at the tip of the frail hair
Subtle rattles of the pegs
Such a marvelous weapon I hold in my hands

Sweet cherry woods
Sings to me as I draw the bow like a
Swing, Pop, Rock, Classic
Such a marvelous weapon I hold in my hands

Stage lights make the details glitter
Sound resonates full and clear
Sharp and flat
Strong and proud
Such a marvelous weapon I hold in my hands

So I make this magic
Sad or joyous
Such a marvelous weapon I hold in my hands

— The End —